Tom Riddle stood there, admiring his badge.
The Headmaster had seen fit to reward his "service" with an ostentatious gift.
He stared at it, saw it nearly catch the light.
He reread the words, pondering at the gullibility of those in control.
It could not have been a more self-serving service.


Peter Pettigrew stood there, admiring his arm.
The Dark Lord had seen fit to grant him a most precious gift.
He held it up, saw it nearly catch the light.
He flexed his fingers, marveling at their precision and control.
He could not have been prouder of his service.